The Songs Will Speak of This
by ChevalierTialys
Summary: ONESHOT. Meredith's madness has infected Hawke. Or perhaps, Hawke was the mad one all along. In the end it doesn't matter.


There is no crimson sun adorning his forehead.

Perhaps he wishes there was. But even if he does, nobody will ever know.

And, as the condemned man is paraded over the scaffold, his manacled hands held by a grim-faced Knight Captain Cullen; as Knight Commander Meredith's mouth twists into a snarl and the crowd begins to scream, Varric reminds himself yet again that there has to be a song in this.

Dressed in newly-made robes - white, more like the ones Andraste wears in all the paintings than those of any mage Varric's ever seen - Anders looks cleaner and more well-off than ever before. And yet there's a bruise stretching from the bloodless line of his mouth and around one honey-coloured eye, and those robes are tinged with a sickly yellow slickness.

 _They've been rubbed in sulfur_ , Varric realises, and the horror of what he's about to see stirs heavily inside him. _Tailored for dying in._

When Knight Commander Meredith begins to read his crimes, her voice growing louder and louder until it booms across the Gallows courtyard (though somehow, Varric only hears the voice of a hysterical little girl), Anders does not protest. His eyes roam the sea of faces before him, and for just one moment, they burn into Varric's. He writes the odd bitter peace in them across his memory, and then, just like all of his companions, he turns away. Even Hawke; Garrett Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, who had won the Knight Commander herself over with his honeyed words; who had used Anders to direct her madness away from himself; who had stoked and tempered it until it served him alone, has fixed his gaze upon the blue summer sky.

 _Get angry, Maker damn you_ , Varric finds himself thinking, even though he knows that Anders' bloodstream has been pumped full of Magebane; the spirit inside him shackled with lyrium. _You were always so angry, and that was what kept you alive. You could snap them all like twigs. Why now, Blondie...?_

Varric had known from the start that Sebastian would not miss the execution for all the gold in Starkhaven, but when the archer appears on the scaffold in the garb of a Chantry priest, he almost laughs. Perhaps, Anders is amused too as he acknowledges Sebastian with a nod of his head and a whispered word that gets lost in the wind. Varric wonders what it had been. Disappointment? Betrayal? Rage? A fulfilled expectation?

The knowledge that he will never be able to ask is what finally convinces him that all of this is _real._

Sebastian's choir-boy voice, meanwhile, soars above the roar of the crowd as he recites the Canticle of Transfigurations. It's strange, Varric thinks, just how out of place that pure voice reciting those gentle words sounds among the voices of whores and cutthroats great and small.

 _Poor little fool. One day, they will fall upon him with shackles and swords and whispered words. And then they'll tear him apart just like they did to Anders._

His voice cracks as he nears the end of the Chant. Is it Elthina he wants to weep for? Or is it Anders? Or just the sheer monstrosity of this whole damned world? The last is most like him, Varric decides.

And then Meredith lifts a gauntleted hand, and Sebastian steps aside as Cullen marches Anders to the stake.

He's trembling now. He still holds his head high, but his eyes are dark with fear. The bruise stands out against his ashen skin. The crowd senses it, like a wild beast senses fear in its prey; cries of _Traitor!_ ; _Abomination!_ ; _Burn, mage whore!_ fly over Varric's head as chains bite into Anders' flesh, snaking around his arms, legs, and chest - but not around his neck, for that could easily lead to a quick death, and the good people of Kirkwall are having none of that.

More Templars arrive, Hawke's own brother among them. They carry faggots of wood and jars of oil, and they stoop to arrange them around Anders' feet like offerings at an altar as he stares into the distance, beyond the walls of this city, and breathes with slow deliberation.

 _Where are you now, Blondie?_ Varric wonders. _In your mother's arms? In the Ferelden circle? In bed with a wench, your belly full of ale?_

 _I told you to run, Blondie_ , he thinks as one of the new Templar recruits hands Cullen the torch. _Damn you, why didn't you run?_

Sebastian asks Anders for his last words.

Every man, woman and barefoot child in the crowd seems to hold their breath.

Anders' eyes settle on Hawke, and he smiles.

"I have no last words for any of you. Only for Hawke. Garrett Hawke."

Varric realizes that he's never heard Anders say that name before.

"May you live a good, long life, Hawke. May you have luck on the battlefield. May the people of this city never lay one finger on you. And, in fifty years' time or more, when you are lying on your deathbed, I want you to look back on this day. And I want you to ask yourself," his chest shudders, and his eyes begin to glisten. "... was it all really worth it?"

This time, Hawke is not afraid to meet his gaze, not even as he nods in Cullen's direction and mutters, "Do it."

"Wait!"

Surprised, Varric glances around, and realizes that it's Sebastian who spoke.

A whisper ripples through the crowd. Meredith's face turns sour like that of a babe with its favorite toy snatched from its hand. Anders' head swivels towards him, and could it really be hope blossoming over his face?

"Please, Knight Commander." Sebastian's voice comes out through gritted teeth. "In the name of the Chantry; in memory of the Grand Cleric, I beg one thing of you. I... I want to burn him myself."

A tear slides down Anders' cheek, and this time Varric hears what he says.

"Sebastian...?"

Meredith signals to Cullen.

The wood ignites with a _whoosh!_ , and Sebastian gives a strangled sob.

At first, it feels so unreal, like some mummers' show, or a scene in a song from some better bard than Varric. Anders stands, sweat beading on his forehead, grimacing as the smoke winds around his face and the fire climbs ever higher. He does not move or cry out, not even when a tongue of flame laps at his robe and the acrid smell of sulfur fills the air.

He starts to scream only when the flames gnaw through his boots.

Blondie, Varric thinks, feeling ill. Sparklefingers. It's not a good story unless the hero dies. I was the one who said that to him. He wants to vomit and he wants to laugh. He wonders why the sea of alcohol he'd gone through before the execution has only started to affect him now. Anders' robe has burned away in places, revealing bare skin peppered with blisters. Varric has watched a hundred men die, by fire and ice and everything in between, but Maker, never like this. As Anders screams and writhes and coughs, the flames caressing his flesh, crowning him in flame, devouring his golden hair, Varric tells himself there's a song in this, a song for the ages, over and over, like a mantra.

Aveline's head is bowed, her hands over her ears. She's whispering something to herself. Varric recognizes it as some part of the Chant. Sebastian is nowhere to be seen. Hawke's eyes are hard. Fenris is watching intently, and for the first time since Varric met him, he looks innocent.

A child watching his friends tear the wings off an insect. He doesn't feel sorrow, or rage. He only wants to see how far it will go to try and fly again.

Varric notices simultaneously that a hush has fallen over the crowd, and that Anders' screams have changed in pitch.

The mage's skin and flesh are cracking. Blue light bursts forth, brighter than flames or daylight. The smoke turns into a seething black mass, echoing with thoughts and whispers, creeping into Varric's nose and mouth. It tastes like lyrium and blood and the sky before a storm.

"Curse you!" the spirit, the demon, bellows. "Curse you all! All of you shall suffer as I have suffered! This world shall burn!"

People detach themselves from the crowd, running wherever their legs will carry them.

The Templars draw their swords, faces pale, quivering like deer that want to bolt.

"End it!" shouts Cullen. "End his suffering!"

Hawke holds up his hand.

"That thing cannot hurt any of you now. It will be gone from this world soon." _Maker, how can he be so damn calm?_ "Let them suffer together for just a while longer.

Varric's hands find their way to his ears, but the spirit's roars and cries still reach him. Justice is protecting Anders, he realizes, and suddenly he wants to weep. He knows by now that spirits can feel pain; he has seen it with his own eyes, and this one is taking the agony of its host onto itself, sheltering whatever is left of the mind of Anders somewhere deep inside; somewhere where the flames cannot reach it.

 _Curse you, Justice. Or Vengeance, or whatever the hell you've chosen to call yourself. You did this to him, so suffer in his place. Andraste's ashes, you know Blondie doesn't deserve this._

And then the spirit's screams reach a crescendo, and the ground quivers beneath Varric's feet. Blue light shatters from within Anders, the flames dancing madly. Smoke and light and noise grow and grow and grow, the bitter smell of lyrium and dreams engulfing the world, and Varric tells himself that this is it, he's going to die, perhaps he'll meet Anders on the other side, perhaps they'll all-

One final roar, like the dying of a beast bigger than the world, and it's all over.

Anders hangs limply in his bonds, broken and dying, but free.

He lifts his eyes, and Varric realizes that he's never truly seen him without Justice before, and for one mad moment, he dares to hope.

"Maker, what have I done? What has Justice done? Oh Maker, forgive me...OH MAKER!"

The flames recover from their shock, burning, devouring, and Anders starts to pray.

"Maker, forgive me for what I have done! I was a fool, I sinned, I murdered, forgive me! Oh Maker, hear my cry; let the blade pass through the flesh; let my blood touch the ground; let my cries touch their hearts; let mine be the last sacrifice..."

"Enough, Hawke." Varric's voice shakes, but he looks Hawke directly in the eye. "Let it end."

"Andraste, Bride of the Maker, take my soul! ANDRASTE!"

"Enough, Hawke. You've done what you wanted. You've-"

Hawke smiles, and for the first time in many years, Varric is afraid.

" _OH MAKER, TAKE ME!_ "

The warm, familiar weight of Bianca slides into Varric's hands.

A bolt buries itself between Anders' eyes.

The crowd is dispersing. Watching a corpse burn is entertainment unworthy of the good people of Kirkwall.

The shackles are so cold around Varric's hands. Meredith is smiling her mad dog smile, manhandling Bianca in a way that is sure to leave her battered. Even at a time like this, all Varric can think about is that damned crossbow.

"Why did you do it?" Hawke asks as Cullen tugs at Varric's chains.

Varric smiles.

"...Because the songs will speak of this, Hawke."


End file.
